What trickery this is?
Soft light on hard metal
where vague figures divide themselves
into sullen groups of despair        and,
somewhere deep and dark,
wish desperately for a new life
where they will slave for
money, beg for love and fight for food.

Or is this my private daylight nightmare
where I see gifted souls lost in the barren backlands
of oblivion? Unseen; never discoverd.

The mistreatment of creative refugees by
hollow men and goons
continues under the constant and 
wakeful eye of humanity.

All I know is that

succes is
longitude and latitude
divided by chance
divided by talent.